


No Room for Ghosts

by blazingstar29



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazingstar29/pseuds/blazingstar29
Summary: “My father died  this morning,” he whispered but Sherlock heard it. He heard it very clearly and looked up.-John's abusive father dies opening the flood gates to some long forgotten trauma
Relationships: Harry Watson & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	No Room for Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> this turned out a lot angstier than I meant too lol.
> 
> Trigger warning for self harm, child abuse, homophobia.

John walked silently up the stairs without meaning to. Usually his heavy military walk announced his presence wherever he went but today he was too numb to do much more than shuffle. 

Sherlock was lounging in his chair, in his hands was a note left by the killer in Lestrade’s pigeon hole at the yard. Somehow the killer had got in and left the Yard without being seen by man or computer. He didn’t notice John lingering absently in the doorway for quite some time. Then the floor creaked and it was like Sherlock remembered he was there. 

“John you’ve been there for a while, what do you want?” He said vacantly. John broke from his trance and stepped in the room, gravitating towards his arm chair and sinking heavily.

The silence continued, stretching and sickening. John couldn’t stand it, so he broke it.

“My father died this morning,” he whispered but Sherlock heard it. He heard it very clearly and looked up.

“I, John, I’m very sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how you feel,” he said sincerely. John couldn’t help it, he laughed.

He laughed loud and hard, but it was stiff with emotion.

“I don’t understand, John?” Sherlock leaned forward to settle on one knee next to John, resting a hand on John’s forearm.

“Nor do I. Sherlock, I’m, I’m glad he’s dead. I’m so fucking happy he’s gone, he’s...he’s,” John started crying and his breathing disrupted as he wheezed. 

“He’s oh god he’s, I’m terrible. I shouldn't.”

John was working himself up into a mess. Sherlock didn’t comprehend it, usually people were deeply upset when their parents had died.John was in obvious conflict about his emotions.

  
“John, I need you to talk to me, what’s wrong,” he tried again to get through to the doctor.

“It’s me, I’m what's wrong,” John cried out. “My father is dead and I couldn’t be happier.”

Sherlock frowned, “there’s some plausible explanation for this. Some sort of trauma…”

Then John slid to the floor and sunk against Sherlock, loudly and violently sobbing. He clung to Sherlock which the detective hesitantly returned and after a moment his grip firmed supporting John. 

“John please talk to me,” Sherlock whispered desperately. John was lax against his body and still crying heavily but the horrific sobbing had stopped. John couldn’t find it in him to care; he was essentially curled up against Sherlock’s knee, his head resting on the man’s thigh.

And neither did Sherlock.

  
  


“He kicked Harry out when she was seventeen. She came home with Clara one day and said she was in love with her. I knew, I knew she was gay. Had for a long time. It’s when it all started to go to shit y’know?” John whispered, his voice croaky. “He was always yelling and breaking things, yelling at mum and me an’ Harry. But it was the straw that broke the camel's back.”

John’s desperate wheezing had reduced to sniffles now. Sherlock had laid back and John’ head had gravitated to rest on his stomach. Without realising it Sherlock was carding his fingers through John’s hair. 

“I um. When he told Harry to leave I swung at him,” John tilted his head and pulled up the hair at the base of his skull. It revealed a thick white scar, “Got that for my troubles but it got Harry time. Got Harry and mum both time to grab what they needed. Me and dad were on the floor hitting each other with whatever we had. Then they were gone, I saw Harry at school. She was thriving, checked on me but didn’t...”

“But she didn’t see what was happening. You couldn’t tell her because she’d come back,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t the way he normally said his deductions, it was quiet and passive, not trying to prove a point. 

“Yeah. I never told him I was bisexual. I’d be dead. He chased my family away, I was fourteen. I wanted to die. But Harry got to live, I think she would have died had she stayed. One way or another she would have. As soon as I could I left. No way I could afford medical school, so I joined the army.”

John sat up to look at Sherlock with watery brown eyes, “am I wrong? Is it wrong?”

“What is?”

“That I’m glad he’s dead, I’m not going to the funeral. I don’t think there will be one.”

Sherlock sighed, sorrow filling his usually bored eyes, “no John. You owe that man nothing. You surrendered yourself to be the sole target of his anger. You did an honourable thing. You owe him nothing.” 

Without thinking Sherlock had to know the answer to something, so he tenderly reached for John’s arms and pulled down the sleeve of his jumper of his right arm. It was clean. With the apology on Sherlock’s lips but John pulled the collar of his jumper down over his upper arm and shoulder.

Straight white lines, over and over and over. 

There were five pink cuts, scabbing. No more than a few hours old. 

Sherlock grabbed John close. They were eye level now as they hugged, quiet sniffling coming from John. Spontaneously and without cause Sherlock lowered his head and kissed the pink cuts softly. And then kissed the white ones. John turned his head away, embarrassment flooding his face but Sherlock pulled him back.

“I’m sorry you had to see tha-” 

John was cut off as Sherlock leaned closer and kissed him softly on the lips. John showed no resistance and even with salty tears leaking down his face he kissed back.

“Don’t appologise for who you are,” Sherlock said firmly.

John smiled thinly, “I don’t want to be that person anymore. I tried so hard to not do it but I couldn’t stop myself. I rang Harry afterwards and told her. She said she was coming over but I was already in a cab here.”

The pair stayed on the floor for a while. When John dozed Sherlock thought about a case when he was awake they spoke softly. Sherlock would tell a story of his adventure growing up with Mycroft or John would tell more of his own life story. 

In one of those times when John was in a deep doze, Lestrade rang.

“Quadripple murder outside the Hyde Park. The vics are clawed to death.”

“Not interested,” Sherlock said dully with his quiet voice.

“Not interested? Thought that'd be right up your ally. We need to prove it’s a murder not some random lion. What’s with the quiet voice anyway?” Lestrade responded with heavy confusion at the consultant’s hesitance.

“I’m not interested. I’m with John, I can’t come in.”

Lestrade was close to begging, “bring John. We need you down here Sherlock. Anderson’s back at the Yard.” 

It was tempting, but now wasn’t the time.

“I can’t come down because of John. I’ll come this evening but not now,” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade was even more confused and was losing patience, “Sherlock. Stop playing games.”

Checking John had completely dozed off Sherlock raised his voice an octave, “this morning John Watson’s abusive father died. He came back home this morning from God knows where, distressed and a danger to himself having cut himself this morning. I will not leave him until he wakes up and I can properly assess his well being until then do your own bloody job.” 

Sherlock hung up and slid the phone across the floor. 

-

Sherlock did go to the crime scene later that evening after feeding John some take-away and putting him to bed. 

Lestrade was extremely apologetic but Sherlock quickly brushed him aside.

“How is he?” The DI asked sincerely.

“He’ll be okay but I’m sure you understand my hesitancy to leave him. He’s currently asleep and I hope he remains that way.”

-

John slept deeply through the night and woke late in the morning. He felt heavy and his eyes still stung. Sherlock’s violin drifted throughout the flat from wherever he was playing. He rose from his bed and ventured down into the kitchen resuming his normal routine like any other day.

Until he broke a plate. 

Until the soft strings of the violin stopped abruptly.

Until Sherlock shouted “John!” 

But it wasn’t Sherlock who John heard shouting his name, it was his father’s voice booming. Without thinking, fueled on fear, John fled the flat. More shouting filling his ears and no ability to differentiate where it came from. 

When Sherlock came to the kitchen it was empty aside from a shattered plate and thes street door wide open. 

John was gone.

Sherlock called Greg instantly. He had to repeat himself every few sentences because he was talking too fast.

“John’s gone, he’s gone, he’s run. He’s not on the street, he. Lestrade we need to find him  _ now _ ,” Sherlock pleaded with an unfamiliar tone.

“Sherlock, I can’t send out units to look for him, it’s not my jurisdiction,” the D.I admitted softly. “I’ll put Donovan on this case, wait where you are and I’ll be there in twenty.”

For those twenty minutes Sherlock phoned John thirty three times before realising that John had left his phone at the flat. 

“What happened?” Greg asked as he bolted up the stairs. Sherlock was close to distraught, still in his pajamas.

“He’s not in his right mind Lestrade. He self harmed yesterday, his joke of a father died yesterday. He is  _ extremely _ unstable, when he broke the plate he fled as soon as I called out to him. He needs to be found  _ now _ ,” Sherlock all but yelled. Greg nodded, the severity finally surfacing. 

The D.I reached for his radio and spoke briefly, “all patrols in the City of Westminster look out for a man, five-foot-seven, Doctor John Watson is unstable, approaching calmly.”

As soon as the report went out Sherlock calmed slightly. 

“What are his bolt holes?” Greg asked whilst moving to clean up the broken plate. Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face.

“I have no idea, he doesn’t. He doesn’t bolt, he freezes that’s…”

What Sherlock doesn’t know is that the Army taught John to freeze. Stop, assess, react. 

John was a bolter, but Sherlock hadn’t met him when he was like that. He still had hidden bolt holes all over the city, he could be anywhere. 

“Harry,” Sherlock suddenly shouted. “His sister!” 

Sherlock rushed to snatch John’s phone and returned to the kitchen. He quickly broke into the phone, opening up the contacts list he rang Harry.

“John?” Harry’s voice rang down the line.

Lestrad snatched the phone before Sherlock could say anything.

“Harry Watson? I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. I’m here with your brother's flatmate Sherlock. John bolted from the flat about half an hour ago after an incident. We believe he is unstable, is he with you?”

Harry was silent for a moment, fear coursing through her, “no, he’s not with me. I, I know where he might have gone.”

-

An hour later Sherlock, Lestrade and Harry were combing their way through woodlands on the outside of London. The once popular trail had been visited less and less over the years but the path was still there. 

“John!” Sherlock shouted once more, his voice had steadily become rougher as he shouted for his friend over and over. Harry was sniffling quietly as she combed the undergrowth for her brother. 

“John it’s me, Harry. Harry the raging fucking lesbain please. Please tell me where you are, “ Harry cried out. Her breath hitching with a laugh at the inside joke but she continued to cry. “John please. I’ve lost a terrible father today, I won’t lose my brother as well.”

Lestrade and Sherlock said nothing. After another fifteen minutes of searching they came across an open field. In the middle was John, lying facing the sky. 

“No!” Harry shouted but Lestrade grabbed her around the waist before she could charge into the field. Sherlock sprinted ahead, begging whatever higher entity people normally believed in for John Watson to be okay For John Watson to be  _ alive.  _

And he was. He had tear tracks down his face and his arms hard crescent shapes all along them.

“Oh John,” Sherlock whispered, clutching the man close. Together they cried, clinging to each other. Clinging, clinging. Harry was there too, she hung off John’s waist as she sobbed and sobbed and they were a mess all three of them. Even Lestrade was wiping a few tears of relief away as he embraced John at the edge of the clearing. 

-

John slipped and he fell. 

Sometimes he could lay there for hours and sometimes he got up in an instant.

Sometimes he couldn’t get up at all, not by himself. 

Sherlock would find him broken on the living room floor or having an anxiety attack in the bathroom over the spilt water. 

Mycroft once said to him it was no point crying over spilt milk. 

One day John did. It was arduous finding an equilibrium to remembering and forgetting. There would be days when he was in the middle of a case and a memory would resurface beneath all the suppression.

Those were John’s worst days. 

It was all well and good dealing with something he knew, but when the panic was clawing up his throat and he was choking on air and hands were ripping into his neck from some long forgotten ghost...That’s when John would break.

He would break hard, shatter. 

John would break so hard he was scared Sherlock wouldn’t go get the sticky tape. That the detective would falter and wonder why he was still doing this. 

Why would he want to look after John Watson?

But he never did, he never faltered and even if Lestrade and Molly were talking him threw a panic attack through a mic in his ear. Well, John never knew. All he knew was that his friend was there.

His over half was there. 

And when his over half was there, there was no room for ghosts. 

  
  


  
  



End file.
